


Spectre

by A Magiluna Stormwriter (ariestess)



Category: Matilda - Roald Dahl
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 17:23:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariestess/pseuds/A%20Magiluna%20Stormwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a wonder to behold when your past walks up and slaps you in the face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spectre

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hollimichele](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollimichele/gifts).



> Date Written: 22-23 December 2013  
> Written for: yuletide 2013  
> Recipient: hollimichele  
> Word Count: 2109  
> Summary: It's a wonder to behold when your past walks up and slaps you in the face.  
> Warnings: No standard warnings apply.  
> Website: ShatterStorm Productions – Doggie Duo  
> Link to: http://bdkk.shatterstorm.net/   
> Archive: ShatterStorm Productions & AO3 only…all others ask for permission & we'll see…  
> Feedback: Constructive criticism is always welcome.
> 
> Author’s Disclaimer: "Matilda," the characters, and situations depicted are the property of Roald Dahl. This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes. Previously unrecognized characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
> 
> Author’s Notes: When I saw this pinch hit come through, I jumped at the chance to write it. Future!fic with Matilda all grown up? Yeah, sign me up! At first, I thought it was movie-verse _Matilda_ , which I own and love to watch. Then I realized it was book-verse, but couldn't grab a copy of the book to peruse for a reminder. So I turned to Wikipedia to get a few details that I may have forgotten over the years. This was when I realized that I clearly hadn't ever read the book, but with future!fic as a prompt request, I knew I could work around my lack of knowledge of the source material. I had fun writing this, and may well have to attempt this fandom again in the future.
> 
> Dedication: My muses, as always…
> 
> Beta: shatterpath, as usual. All remaining errors are totally my own damned fault.

2nd April

Dear Diary,

It's a wonder to behold when your past walks up and slaps you in the face. When they left, running away to keep ahead of the law and obvious jail time, I only gave them an occasional thought. Miss Honey was there to make sure I'd be well taken care of, of course. She was, and still is, everything I've ever wanted in a parent.

So why was I born to the Wormwoods? Clearly they never wanted me or really understood how to deal with me. It's not like they learned any sort of cosmic life lesson by having me in their lives. And any lessons I learned were meant for me, not them.

But I digress…

I was out shopping for a birthday present for Miss Honey today. It doesn't matter that her birthday is in three months. I like keeping an eye out for gifts for her all year long, but you know that already. I actually found a lovely pendant for her in that new consignment shop downtown. The one that replaced the fish and chips shop after Mrs. Paddington passed away earlier this year. I miss her and her husband. They always gave Miss Honey and me extra chips and pickles when we stopped in for lunch. I don't know why Tony and Alicia didn't choose to take over the shop after Mrs. Paddington passed away. Tony was always so good at running things after his father's heart attack. Maybe he just didn't want to be pigeonholed into something that was more of a chore than a privilege. I know that's why Alicia ran off and married that punk rocker she met at university.

And again, I digress. Miss Honey never has been able to break me of that habit.

Where was I? Right, Miss Honey's pendant. I'd stopped in the shop on my lunch to see what they had that might be interesting. I have the pendant on layaway, as I didn't have enough cash on me today. It's a teardrop-shaped, faceted amethyst, surrounded by several smaller emeralds. It makes me think of the pansies Miss Honey and I always plant each year in the flower beds along the front porch of the house.

I was coming out of the shop, racing back to the school to make it in time for my afternoon classes, when I saw it. That gaudy, black and off-white checkered sports coat that my father always favored. It was always so hideous on him, but also suited him and his sleazy car salesman persona perfectly. I only saw the man from behind, so can't be certain that it was my father, but there was a split second where I felt time melt away and I was a child again, losing him in the crowded streets after the workday ended. It was a terribly disconcerting feeling that plagued me for the rest of the day. Even now, I feel oddly out of sorts.

Perhaps this is a good time for a glass of wine and a nice long soak in the bath. I don't think anyone will be upset if I don't go for my nightly walk around the lake. Well, maybe the swans will, but they have enough tourists to feed them crappy bread to suffice for one night. I'll take them the good stuff tomorrow to make up for it.

Good night, dearest diary.

Matilda

* * *

7th April

Dear Diary, 

I think I saw him again today. Actually I think it was my mother's perfume that triggered me to them today. That cheap rose water that she always seemed to bathe in suddenly surrounded me when I walked into the market to pick up peaches for the peach cobbler Miss Honey wanted for dinner tomorrow. The peach tree in the backyard is barely budding now, let alone ready to bear fruit, and we've run out of the canned peaches and preserves from last year's harvest already. And to be quite honest, Miss Honey's peach cobbler is best when fresh fruit is used. I'll eat it otherwise, of course, because I love her peach cobbler more than anything in the world, but it doesn't taste right if they're not fresh peaches.

But I was talking about my mother's perfume, wasn't I? It was terribly disconcerting to smell it again, and I nearly gave myself whiplash in the attempt to find her in the market. Poor Thaddeus thought I'd lost my mind when I asked him about the perfume. He gave me three extra peaches and bade me to tell Rosie they were past their prime when I checked out. I didn't, of course. They rely on their produce sales and I won't have them losing out even on the little bit of money those three peaches would bring in.

As I stepped out of the market, I saw the flash of checkerboard that signaled his jacket again. It was an even briefer flash that a few days ago, and only in my peripheral vision, so I couldn’t really even attempt to follow him.

I told Miss Honey about it while we made dinner tonight, as well as my earlier sighting. She isn't sure what to make of it, particularly given that it's been nearly twenty years since we last saw or heard from them. She thinks that it's just a coincidence connected to the odd heat wave we've been having this spring. So many people taking advantage of the unseasonably warm weather, natives and tourists alike, have the streets more clogged than usual. Clearly that many bodies packed in so closely would cause strange odors and visual cues.

I don't think I want to consider that anything else is even possible right now. Why would they want to see me again after so long? It's not like they've even attempted to keep in contact with me since fleeing the country as they did.

All right, enough of that. Time for my walk around the lake to feed the swans. Miss Honey's decided to join me tonight. She's clearly feeling that motherly need to keep me close while I'm trying to deal with these strange sightings.

Good night, dearest diary.

Matilda

* * *

14th April

Dear Diary,

Miss Honey is a sneaky woman. She's been doing keeping tabs on the police investigation into my father's less than legal practices. I don't even know how she's been able to do that, since it was never really a matter of public record. She told me today that the statute of limitations on the charges they'd tried to bring against my father have run out. He could technically come back to this country, this city, if he wanted to now.

Dear god, what if I did actually see him? And smell her perfume? But why would they come back now? It's not like they have anything here to come back to. They've no other family besides me. I never met any of my grandparents or extended relations. As far as I know, they're all dead and gone, or just want nothing to do with my parents at all.

And it's not like my parents suddenly have this burning desire to see me, right? I was never what they wanted in a child before, so why would they change their minds now?

No, I'm sure I was just having some sort of weird hallucinations or something. That's all it could possibly be, right? But I simply cannot go anywhere near the consignment shop or the market without being on the lookout for them. It's kind of disconcerting, to say the least.

Well, I should go finish grading the surprise essay exams I gave them today, so I can take my nightly walk by the swans. Hopefully someone did their homework and passes it. It's not like it was a difficult set of questions to answer, but it's spring and their minds are entirely not on their schoolwork. The unseasonably warm weather is not helping in this endeavor at all either.

Good night, dearest diary.

Matilda

* * *

22nd April

Dear Diary,

It turns out all of my numerous visions of my parents over the last three weeks happened for a reason after all. On a whim, I chose to do a little more research into them, just to see what I could find out.

I shouldn't have. I should have just left it alone and written them off as odd hallucinations brought on by the heat.

But I didn't. And my searches led me to receive a call today from a private investigator, coincidentally enough while I was on my lunch. He's apparently been looking for me for the last three weeks, in fact. It turns out my parents apparently passed away several years ago. He explained what happened, but I honestly don't remember a single word of it.

I was so shaken that I did the unthinkable and telephoned the school to take sick leave for the rest of the day. Thank goodness for my history of them, as my story of being stricken with a migraine was readily accepted. Once I got off the phone, I began to wander the streets as I tried to find him again, but couldn't. I don't even know how I got to her house, but Miss Honey wasn't surprised to see me when she came home from work.

Over a cup of catmint and lavender tea, I explained what the investigator told me. She listened quietly and squeezed my hand, then pulled me into a tight embrace when I finished speaking. She held me like that for several minutes as I cried, before kissing my forehead. Before I could say anything, she stood and moved to take something out of the safe hidden behind the painting of her father.

It was a small box, from which she pulled an envelope with half a dozen sheets of stationery inside. A letter from my father, accompanied by the documents signing legal custody of me over to her. Both of them had signed those documents. Well, all three of them, Miss Honey included. I knew about the custodial documents. Okay, maybe I didn't know for sure, but I suspected that they might have actually existed. My name never changed, nor did Miss Honey and I ever really discuss the details of the paperwork my father had supplied her with when she agreed to take me in when they went on the lam.

She then gave me the rest of the contents of the box. A number of letters from my mother were inside; all addressed externally to Miss Honey, but with no return address. The postmarks came from all over the world. The postmarks stopped once I'd reached the age of twenty-one, then started up again after I'd turned twenty-five. Each letter was dated two weeks prior to my birthday.

She explained that whoever the private investigator was, he was a fraud. She said she knows deep down, with the same certainty with which she'd eventually believed in my telekinesis, that my parents are still alive, that at least my mother had a change of heart about me. She thinks the private investigator is actually my father, that he's been in town and knows that I saw him. That perhaps he's trying to give me some sort of closure to them and their part in my life.

I just wish they'd understand that they wouldn't have done it at all. The box with all of the letters and documentation is sitting here on my desk, untouched. I can't bring myself to read them, but feel a strange sort of weight has been lifted from my shoulders. Isn't that odd? Why should I have felt burdened all these years for their lack of parenting ability? And yet I apparently have been. But no longer.

Tomorrow I'll have Miss Honey return the box to the safe. I don't think I'm ready to read the letters just yet, but one day I will be.

And if that private investigator calls me again, as I've a strong suspicion he might, I'll just say, "I forgive you, Father," and then hang up. I think it's time to assuage him of that. Forgive the person, not the act, right? Isn't that what the bigger person is supposed to do?

And now, I believe I'll go take my walk by the lake to feed the swans, followed by a long soak in the tub with a bottle of wine at my side. I think I deserve it as a sort of celebration of truly being free of the spectres of my childhood.

Good night, dearest diary.

Matilda


End file.
